


Day 3 - Nightmares (2.2)

by fanfictiongreenirises



Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nightmares, Self-Sacrificing Dick Grayson, Tim Drake is Robin, i love that that tag exists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26789614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/pseuds/fanfictiongreenirises
Summary: "It was better being awake, where he was able to see with his own eyes what was and wasn’t real."Bruce is resigned to the nightmares after their most recent kidnapping. But that doesn't mean they don't have an impact on him.Alternative Prompt - Nightmares
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947217
Comments: 22
Kudos: 243





	Day 3 - Nightmares (2.2)

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Day 2 - "Pick Who Dies"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26768149). I'd recommend reading that before this ^~^
> 
> **Warnings: Pretty vivid depiction of suicide. Gore and horror.**
> 
> Disclaimer: owning DC would solve like 99 of my problems (but sadly I do not)

THIS FANFICTION IS HOSTED ON **ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN** , WHERE YOU CAN READ IT FOR **FREE**. IF YOU’RE READING THIS ON A DIFFERENT WEBSITE, IT WAS POSTED THERE **WITHOUT** THE AUTHOR’S CONSENT.

Bruce jerked awake in bed, heart pounding in his chest and face wet. He sat up, knowing that although he needed to sleep, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to. It was better being awake, where he was able to see with his own eyes what was and wasn’t real.

A glance at the clock told him that it was about five in the morning – not the most outrageous time to be getting up and starting the day. After another moment or so of debating, Bruce shoved the covers off and got up.

The nightmares hadn’t begun immediately, but that was nothing new. Bruce’s body normally took a day or two to catch up with sleep, to rest from whatever had happened. The nightmares always hit when he’d finally gotten back to a relatively baseline level, when he was no longer on high alert or asleep on his feet.

Alfred would be asleep for another hour. Bruce got the coffee machine running, intending to go and make his morning check-ins with the kids currently in the Manor after it was done.

His plans were thwarted when a pyjama-clad Tim peered up at him from the doorway.

Bruce sighed. “Just woke up or couldn’t sleep?”

“Whichever will get me in the least amount of trouble,” Tim responded. He added hopefully, “Breakfast?”

Bruce grimaced. “We have muffins, and also fruit. Probably that Greek yoghurt Alfred’s grown attached to.”

“Nah, that’s Cass’. Alfred’s trying to make his own.”

“Make his own what?”

“Yoghurt.”

Bruce frowned. “As long as he doesn’t make the rest of us eat it,” he said, although, knowing Alfred, it would taste good regardless.

Tim got to the pantry, pulling out bits and pieces of food here and there. “I’ll just make you whatever I’m having,” he said.

“I’ll… cut the fruit.”

They worked in silence, and Bruce did his best _not_ to watch what Tim was doing, because he wanted to be able to eat it with a clear conscience, and Tim was at _that_ stage in his teenage life where he believed any edible items could be put together.

“Nightmares?” Bruce asked Tim, once they’d settled at the breakfast bar.

Tim shrugged. “It’s not really a big deal,” he said, spooning in a mouthful of… Bruce actually didn’t know what it was that they were eating. “Same stuff.”

“Just because they come with the job doesn’t mean they aren’t a big deal,” Bruce said softly. “Talking helps, sometimes.” Knowing the amount of nightmare fodder Tim had gotten in the short time he’d been Robin made him even more adamant about it.

“Did you have one?” Tim asked. “That why you’re up so early?”

Bruce didn’t like talking about his nightmares, especially not as openly like this. But he’d _just_ told Tim that talking was good; what sort of an example would he be showing if he were to clamp up about his own?

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

Bruce exhaled. “How about we take turns?” he said.

* * *

Bruce’s nightmare ‘schedule’ was rather logical: a few days to physically recover from the incident, followed by a week to a month of the same nightmare. Sometimes the situations would change slightly, but the outcome would always be the same, more or less.

Tonight’s was pretty much the same as the previous. He was floating in a giant aquarium, and in front of him, separated by a wall, was Dick. He had a gun in his mouth, and as Bruce watched, unable to say anything through the water that was all around him, he fired.

Brain matter went absolutely everywhere. Bruce had studied enough forensics to know just how it would look. The far wall was sprayed with blood. There was no obvious hole on the side of Dick that Bruce could see, but his body went limp, the gun falling from his hand and sinking to the bottom of the tank.

The water was dyed a bright red, the colour seeping into it from the top as the blood poured out of the wound in Dick’s head. It swept through the tank like a red cloud, sinking down until most of the water was a pinkish colour. It was most concentrated at the top, though, where there was still blood pouring out of Dick’s head.

Dick’s body was floating, his dead weight making him float like a fish as the water in the tank kept pumping in. Bruce watched, frozen by dream logic and unable to do anything, as the body spun slightly, giving him the perfect view of the giant, gaping hole in the back of Dick’s head.

That was normally when Bruce woke up. A lot of his dreams made him physically sick, made him rush to the bathroom and throw up. But all this one got him were wet cheeks and a damp pillowcase.

Bruce didn’t understand _why_ until another few days. Why was his brain so intent on showing him Dick blowing his head off, when Bruce _knew_ that the gun _hadn’t_ worked underwater, that Dick had instead stabbed himself? He’d chalked it up to his issue with guns.

But now he realised the difference. The rate of suicide via gun were much higher than a stab wound to the gut. And he’d blacked out before he’d seen the results of the gunfire.

Dick was staying over in Gotham the following week, a few days after Bruce had wrapped his head around this. He’d been in New York since Bludhaven had gotten destroyed, which was farther away than Bludhaven had been, but at least now he had a whole bunch of other superheroes who could respond to distress calls.

At least now he had _Clark_ there. Bruce had called Clark both after he’d found out that Dick had gone to New York, and after the incident with the kidnapping. Clark had already known, on both occasions.

Some of his nightmares now were broken by phone calls from Clark, and while Bruce wasn’t very fond of the man keeping an ear on his heartrate, he appreciated being pulled out from them.

Superman was apparently busy tonight – either that, or tired from his own patrolling. Bruce came to the same way he had on so many nights. He took in a shuddering breath and rubbed at his face, trying to wipe the sleep from out of his eyes.

That was when he remembered that Dick was spending the night in the Manor; before he could even finish the thought, Bruce had left the bed, covers in disarray, and was now padding barefoot down the hall.

Dick’s room used to be closer, but now Bruce could poke his head into Tim’s (just in case) and make sure the teen was asleep.

He spotted him, a messy lump on the bed, sheets half on his body and half on the floor. He genuinely didn’t understand how Tim got himself in sleep positions like that – surely there was no way for him to untuck the covers and do… _that_.

But Bruce headed over anyway, picking up the armful of sheets from where they lay on the ground and dumping them onto the bed, pulling them over Tim’s very twisted form. It wasn’t a particularly cold night, but he knew that Tim tended to sleep better when he was warm.

Bruce left Tim’s room as quietly as he’d entered. Tim had grown used to nightly intrusions like this in the few months that he’d been living in the Manor. Bruce could remember at the start how he’d jerked awake the moment Bruce had tried to pull blankets back over him, or smooth his hair from his face.

Cassandra was at Barbara’s place, alternating nights between the Manor, Barbara’s, and the Batcave that Bruce had made for her, based on no pattern that Bruce had been able to detect so far. He’d seen with Dick that sometimes he needed his own space, and mostly he was just grateful that Cass didn’t hide where she was from him.

Dick’s door wasn’t entirely closed, as always when he slept in the Manor. Bruce poked his head inside, heart pounding away in his chest once more.

Logically, he knew that Dick would be fine. It was just a dream. It hadn’t happened like that.

But it _had_ happened, that other part of his brain said. That was why he was having nightmares about it.

Maybe Dick wasn’t as used to sleeping with the door open anymore, because he’d stirred when Bruce had opened the door.

“Bruce?” he said, yawning. “Everything okay?”

“Fine, Dick,” Bruce said, clearing his throat. His voice felt like it was echoing, though he knew it was just the shadows that made the Manor feel emptier, more haunted, during the night. “Go back to sleep.”

“Nightmares?” Dick said in response, sitting up and stretching like a cat.

Bruce grunted. “It’s nothing new,” he said.

“I dunno, B, d’you normally get up and visit my room?” Dick didn’t look like he had any intention of going back to sleep.

“I check up on everyone in the Manor. You’re currently in the Manor.”

Dick sighed. “Be like that,” he said, but it came out fond instead of bitter.

“Why’re you awake?” Bruce asked.

Dick shot him an amused look. “You woke me,” he said. “Guess I’m becoming a lighter sleeper now that I’m living alone.” He scratched the back of his neck, tilting his head at Bruce. “If you’re gonna keep chatting, you might as well come inside and sit.”

Normally, Bruce would’ve taken that as an excuse to leave the conversation. He’d let Dick sleep. But even now, almost twenty minutes since he’d woken, there was a thrum of anxiety running through him. He couldn’t see Dick properly in the shadows; he hadn’t yet been able to appease that part of his mind that liked to entertain dreams.

Bruce sat at the edge of Dick’s bed, around where his hips would be had Dick been lying down. “I need to know,” he said. “Because—From a purely objective—”

“You don’t need to start it out like _that_ ,” Dick muttered. “Just ask the question. Geez. Do you give Tim a disclaimer before you ask him how school went, too?” He made his voice deep as he said, “’Tim, I ask this with purely objective intentions designed to assess your wellbeing based on the Psychological Wellbeing Scale: how was your sleepover?’”

Bruce shot him an unamused look, but he couldn’t deny that hearing Dick talk so normally was doing wonders to calm him down. “When we were captured in the fish tank. You didn’t hesitate when you went for the gun or the knife. I—”

“Bruce, I’m not _suicidal!”_ Dick said, louder than either of them had spoken that night. He ran a hand through his hair, leaning back a little. “They wanted me to choose between both of us, or just me. We ran out of time. I didn’t know when Tim would be coming – if he was coming at all.” Dick shrugged. “I did what I had to.”

Bruce had to get up, had to start pacing. He fisted his hands into his hair, trying his absolute best to control the bubbling emotions that threatened to overpower him.

“Hey, you can’t be mad at me,” Dick said softly. “Not if you’d do the same. Which I know you would.”

“It’s not the same,” Bruce got out, turning back around. “You’re my son - I’m supposed to protect you.”

“We’re partners, Batman.” Bruce didn’t understand how Dick could still have a slight smile on his face, how he could still talk about this so _lightly_. “I protect you as much as you protect me.”

Dick had gotten up and out of bed now. He yawned again, stretching slightly. For the first time, Bruce saw him in the moonlight, wearing a threadbare T-shirt and the sleep pants that Alfred kept trying to throw out.

“We weren’t there as Batman and Nightwing,” Bruce murmured. “You’re my son. What sort of a father lets his son die for him like that?”

Dick didn’t respond, but wrapped his arms around Bruce. Bruce clutched back tightly, burying his face in Dick’s shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut. The kernel of fear in his chest was still there, but it was manageable now, with the knowledge that Dick was alright, that he hadn’t died. He was still here and Bruce could now make sure that nothing like that ever happened again, that there was never any reason for Dick to be in a situation like that.

And then Dick went limp in his arms.

_"_ _Dick?”_

Bruce’s arms automatically tightened to hold him upright, but Dick wasn’t moving. He was dead weight in Bruce’s embrace.

Bruce lowered the two of them to the ground, holding Dick by the shoulder. He was _out_. Ignoring the frantic pounding of his heart and everything inside himself that was screaming that this wasn’t right, that he was missing something, Bruce put his fingers to Dick’s pulse point.

As he did so, Dick’s mouth opened slightly. The moonlight was in the perfect place to show Bruce the hole in Dick’s head, through the back of his throat.

_No_. _No, no, no_. Bruce reared back, breath coming in sharp bursts. He looked down at the wooden flooring where there was a steadily growing pool of red; his fingers had left bloody trails.

* * *

Bruce had barely woken before he was bolting to the bathroom, barely making it in front of the toilet bowl before he was throwing up dinner, post patrol snacks, hell, even _lunch._

He sat there on his haunches, panting slightly after he was finished. He went through all his tests to ensure he was awake, and then he got up and as calmly as he could, walked to Dick’s room.

He was lucky that Dick was actually staying over at the Manor tonight, because there was no way he could go without checking for himself now – Bruce would’ve made the drive to New York if Dick had gone back to his apartment.

Bruce barely cared about keeping quiet. He opened the door and went straight for Dick’s still form under the covers. Bruce switched on the lamp, because he couldn’t handle any more surprises like that.

Dick woke at that, blinking in disgruntlement. At the sight of Bruce, and however Bruce’s face looked, he sat up, rubbing at his eyes.

“Bruce?” he said, voice hoarse. “Everything okay?”

Bruce made a small sound at the words, exactly the same as in the dream. He didn’t respond, moving closer to Dick. Bruce reached out and fumbled as he gently placed a hand on Dick’s head, silencing all the words that he’d just opened his mouth to say, and then tilting his head downward.

“Bruce?” Dick said softly.

Bruce was still eerily silent, fingers weaving their way through Dick’s hair. First it was hesitant, unwilling to see yet another gaping wound, so like a thousand, probably more, that he’d seen on the streets of Gotham. Then his movements grew more frantic.

Dick sat there and let him confirm that his fears were unfounded. He tugged Bruce down to sitting when Bruce finally pulled back, and yanked him into a hug.

Bruce let out a shuddering breath now, frozen in the embrace. The feeling of a stiffening body in his arms was one he was also familiar with – _too_ familiar, in a way no one should ever be – and he knew what it was like to hold his child’s still figure in his arms all too well.

“Your life,” he began, stutteringly, “it’s worth more to me than my own. I need you to know that. In any situation, if it’s between you or me, I will choose you—”

“But I won’t,” Dick said. “What you said, that goes both ways, Bruce. I love you, too. And even if I didn’t, even if you were a stranger to me—”

“Not like that,” Bruce said. “Not for a mission, not as Batman and Nightwing.”

“ _Oh_.” The clarity was visible in Dick’s voice. “The kidnapping thing with the fish tank.”

“Recurring nightmare,” Bruce admitted. It was so much easier to say things to Dick when he didn’t have to look him in the eye. “You know how it is.”

“I’m sorry about creating more nightmare fodder,” Dick said. “But I’m not sorry about doing it. I won’t apologise for that. We didn’t know anyone was coming for us. There was no reason for both of us to die, not when you had the opportunity to get out.”

Bruce had nothing to say to that. He drew back slightly, and Dick released him from the hug, but his gaze fell on the left of Dick’s chest, where he’d pushed in the blade. He knew, below the thin shirt, that there was a mostly healed wound. It had been deep enough that it would scar.

Bruce had spent a long time staring at it as they’d waited for Dick to wake up, giving him transfusions to make up for the amount of blood he’d lost.

“You should see a therapist,” he said. “I know it wasn’t like a—a typical attempt. But there were still… it still had to have an impact, and I would prefer it if you talked to someone about it. Someone qualified.”

“Is that what this is about?” Dick asked. “The part where I had to do it to myself? Bruce, I’m not suicidal. You do psych evals on us _regularly.”_

“Please,” Bruce said, surprising both him and Dick. “It’s not about whether or not you’re suicidal. It’s about the fact that you put a gun in your mouth intending for it to—and then you _stabbed yourself_.”

“Of course I did!” Dick was shouting now. “It was either that or see you drown! It’s not like I _picked_ you over me – there was no getting out of there for me. Of course I chose to save you. What, you think I wanted to see you die with me when I could’ve stopped it?”

Bruce scrubbed at his face. “No. No, goddammit, that’s not… that’s not in you.”

“Look, I get it.” Dick’s voice had softened all over again; Bruce would be getting whiplash from the ups and downs of this conversation had it not been their norm for so long. “I’ve had my share of people who committed suicide that I couldn’t save. It sucks when they’re strangers, and I can’t imagine how it must be when it’s someone you know. But there was no _choice_.”

“I understand,” Bruce said. “But Dick, after Jason, I… when people say that parents aren’t meant to outlive their children, it’s… it means that the feeling of losing Jason isn’t something I can live through again.”

"So you'd prefer to die _with_ me, if it'd save you from outliving me?" Dick said. "You'd orphan Tim all over again, when he's only just beginning to get over his father's death?"

Bruce didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say. Dick was right; of course he was right. He couldn't bear to think about what it'd be like to lose two fathers in such a short time - comparing it with the thought of losing Alfred made him immediately change tracts.

But that didn't change how Bruce felt about _this_.

Dick sighed. “I’m too tired for this conversation,” he said. Then he shuffled over. “Come on, just… get in. I get what you’re saying, you get what I’m saying. There’s nothing either of us can say that’ll change the other’s mind. So you might as well get in and get _some_ sleep.”

Bruce opened his mouth to tell Dick that no, he couldn’t sleep, not after a nightmare like _that_ , but then Dick gave him a _look_ , something he’d probably learned directly from Alfred, and Bruce had to comply.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! 
> 
> This is also [cross-posted on tumblr](https://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com/post/630938794946871296/day-3-nightmares-22).


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